


i hope you can see the shape that i’m in

by kattyshack



Series: come on home and turn me on [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (okay well maybe like half-unresolved), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jealousy, Pining, Rage Kitten Jon, Roommates, Unresolved Sexual Tension, jon's inner monologue is like fifty percent italics bc he's a certified Drama Ho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 14:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13683831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: In which Sansa gets all the honeys, and all Jon gets is the “Kill Bill” sirens stuck in his head because of it.(title from “woman,” by harry styles)





	i hope you can see the shape that i’m in

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: if you haven’t read this series’ previous installments, i highly HIGHLY recommend doing so before you get into this one!! (it’s not particularly hard to follow, but the emotional payoff is better if you read this fic’s predecessors, is all)

Three weeks. It’s been _three weeks_ since Jon has had Sansa all to himself, and he might actually kill someone if he doesn’t get her alone soon — specifically, everyone who tries to get her alone when Jon is standing, like, _right there_.

It’s _maddening_.

Now, Jon understands that he doesn’t paint the most imposing of pictures. He’s hardly taller than Sansa (but when you’ve got legs _like that_ , well, hardly anybody’s taller than she is, so that’s not even his fault, it’s Sansa and her damn delectable _legs_ ); he’s not a hulking mass of muscle, but he thinks he does alright for himself all the same (he’s _lean_ and _toned_ , and Sam’s girlfriend Gilly showed him one of her women's magazines once that said that’s much more preferable to a hulking mass of muscle); and he doesn’t look particularly _mean_ , either, no matter how much he broods or scowls or grinds his teeth when some pretty boy with five-days-a-week gym arms tries to chat up Sansa at the corner store (in fact, Sansa herself says he looks like a put-off little kitten when he does that, and Jon thinks he’s never been more insulted in his life. Not even a _puppy_ , it’s got to be a _kitten_ , which somehow sounds just so much _worse_ ).

But does any of that really _matter_? Jon demands of no one but himself — because who else can he ask? The answer is, of course, no, none of that matters at all. What _matters_ is that every time one of these types sidles up to Sansa, Jon is forced to watch it all happen and he’s not sure if she even wants him to do anything about it.

He’s just so insecure in this… _thing_ he and Sansa have going on. Not only has it been three weeks since they’ve had a chance to do it again — “it” being rolling around in his bed for several straight hours in which they’d used up Sansa’s secret stash of condoms, and even though he didn't get to go down on her, she still let him eat chocolate syrup off her — but they hadn’t gotten to talk about what it _meant_ , either.

Over and over again, Jon had wracked his brain for some memory, some indication, that they weren’t just fooling around. He thinks she knows that he wants more — that first time, when she’d put the moves on him in the middle of a movie, she’d said “You like me, right?” And _right_ , of course that’s right. He hadn’t explicitly said yes, but he still thought she ought to _know that_ by now. He had kissed her, after all, and put his hands down her pants… And, two weeks after that, they’d fucked on the floor because he just couldn’t _wait_ anymore and neither could she…

Well, all in all, Jon thinks it’s rather obvious that he’s mad about her.

“Hey.” Sansa slips into the seat beside him at the pub, and Jon sprays beer all over the bar in his surprise. It’s like she knew he’d been thinking about her and then, _bam_ , there she was.

That’s got to mean… well, _something_ , hasn’t it?

She smirks at the mess, then grabs a few napkins to mop it up before Pyp and Grenn — who are tending bar tonight — can take the piss out of Jon for it. He thinks he might love her for that, but then shakes it off; the last thing he needs to be thinking about now is _loving_ her, when he hasn’t even really talked to her about _liking_ her.

 _One horribly misplaced step at a time_ , Jon thinks with a little sigh. He’s so shit at this.

“Hey,” he says rather belatedly when he’s finished helping Sansa clean up the mess he’d made. He takes another, more careful, sip of his beer, and lets his eyes wander over her. “You look nice.”

“Oh —” Sansa glances down at her sheer sweater (under which she’s got on a lacy camisole that makes Jon’s mouth water) and suede skirt. “Thanks. I came straight from work. I’m probably a little overdressed.”

“Nah.” Jon smiles at her, but his expression falls when he glances around and sees that she’s already got a more-than-fair bit of attention. Probably due to the considerable amount of leg that’s visible between her skirt and the straps of her little ankle boots.

He clears his throat, then turns towards her fully so that their knees are touching. It probably won’t be enough to deter her fan club, but that’s not going to stop Jon from touching her when he’s got the chance.

Sansa swipes his beer and takes a pull from it. Jon’s too distracted with the way her lips close around the rim to protest; he’d be fuckin’ _mad_ to protest. Even if Sansa drinking his beer wasn’t lowkey erotic, still Jon wouldn’t stop her. Because that’s just the thing — Sansa could ask him to jump, and Jon would commandeer an aircraft carrier just to make sure he’d go as high as she wanted. He’s just about wrapped around her little finger, isn't he?

And what’s more is that he doesn’t mind at all, Jon realizes as she sets the bottle down and nudges it back towards him with a smile. He even rather likes it.

“Anyone else coming tonight?” she asks, shaking Jon from his reverie. He can still feel the dopey smile on his face and he thinks — he _thinks_ — that might be to blame for the blush on Sansa’s cheeks, and he sure _hopes_ as much.

“Nope.” Jon’s eyes darken as he lightly traces her knee. Sansa shifts in her seat, not out of discomfort but so she can get inconspicuously — they are in _public_ , after all — closer to him. “Robb and Theon are working. Arya bailed. Apparently Gendry surprised her with tickets to some obscure fight club event —”

“The Faceless Men exhibit,” Sansa corrects him. Her fingertips graze the back of his hand, gently leading the circles he’s rubbing into her knee. “It’s not a _fight club_ —”

Jon snorts, but he can’t hide the quirk of his lips when he toys with the hem of her skirt. “It sounds like a cult.”

“It _sounds like_ Arya and Gendry are sleeping together,” Sansa points out the important detail. “I called it. I feel like someone owes me money.”

“How about a drink instead?”

Jon’s jaw tenses and his hand moves to Sansa’s thigh, grip digging into her sweet warm skin as he thinks darkly, _Oh gods, not another one_. He can’t even get five minutes with her before _some guy_ shows up and makes him want to flip a damn table.

As if reading his mind, Sansa clutches his hand reassuringly with her own… But still she turns to greet the newcomer, because that’s the polite thing to do and Sansa’s always been polite. It’s one of the things Jon likes about her so much — so courteous and well-mannered that even her thinly-veiled insults often sound more like pleasantries — but right now he’d really prefer a good rousing chorus of “fuck off, thanks.”

But of course Sansa wouldn’t say that, and even if Jon’s jaw would unstick he wouldn’t dream of doing anything to upset her; so instead he sits silently by, hand held fast to her thigh, as she says, “Evening, Jaime. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The man — _Jaime_ , older, with a strikingly symmetrical face and, in Jon’s opinion, too many teeth when he smiles — tilts his head to indicate a table across the pub. “I promised my brother a round after work, but I’m afraid he’s become so besotted with one of the waitstaff that he won’t notice I’m gone for at least another quarter of an hour.”

 _Great_ , Jon thinks, _so that’s another quarter of an hour of me pretending I don’t exist, then_.

He knows he’s being ridiculous, unreasonable, especially when Sansa continues her steady strokes across the back of his hand on her thigh (someone could chop his hand off at this point and Jon would still find a way keep his hold on her). Anyone should be able to take the hint, but Jaime is apparently too sophisticated to comprehend Jon’s impending breakdown.

Vaguely, Jon registers the fact that they’re chatting about work — Sansa and Margaery mingle with all manner of sophisticated men at their art gallery, he recalls rather sourly now, because how is he meant to compete with _that_? — but when Jaime reiterates his offer of a drink, Jon’s breakdown isn’t so much _impending_ as it is immediate.

The hand that had been gripping Sansa’s thigh — so tightly it’s bound to leave a mark, for which Jon feels awful and simultaneously strangely _proud_ — moves to grasp her arm as he stands abruptly, pulling her up with him.

“Sorry,” Jon says, not sounding sorry at all. He tosses a few banknotes on the bar that more than cover his tab, but he’s not about to wait around for his change. He catches Jaime’s little knowing smirk; he’d wonder at it, too, but he’s not particularly interested in the inner machinations of the man’s brain. “We’ve actually got to get going. Nice to meet you though, Jeffrey.”

Jaime doesn’t bother to correct him, even though Jon could swear he’s laughing at him as he tugs Sansa to the back of the pub. His car’s parked out front, actually, but the last thing Jon wants to worry about is fumbling to get the door unlocked before he can get another five minutes with Sansa. So the corridor by the restrooms is just going to have to do.

As soon as they round the corner, out of sight of the rest of the pub, Sansa jerks her arm from his grasp and pokes him, hard, in the chest. He supposes he deserves that.

“What is the _matter_ with you?” she demands, and Jon supposes he deserves the flash of accusation in her eyes, too, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to fold and admit it.

“Nothing’s the matter with me,” he contests instead. He pokes her in retaliation, nudging her closer to the wall at her back, caging her between the bricks and his humming, _yearning-for-her_ body. “I’m _fine_.”

“Oh, you’re so _fine_ that you manhandled me across the pub for no apparent reas—”

Sansa doesn’t get a chance to finish that question, since Jon swoops down to take her mouth with his — fast and hard and possessive, tongue slipping past her lips to swallow her muffled but nevertheless surprised gasp. One hand slides up to cup her face, the other goes to her hip to push her more firmly against the wall. He rolls his body against hers, chests pressed tight together, and he tilts his head to change the angle, to take control and kiss her deeper.

 _Three weeks._ He whimpers into her mouth and holds her tighter. _Three god damn miserable weeks without you, I can’t do it again…_

She must be thinking something similar, because she curls her fingers in his shirt collar and yanks him closer, sighing into the kiss. She presses against him and he pushes back, desperate to feel every last hitch of her breath, every toe-curling moan, every swipe of her tongue against his and the way it makes her body shudder when he nips at her lip.

When her hips begin to rotate into his, Jon tears his mouth away, just for a moment, just to regulate his panting breaths before he dives back in and maybe even fucks her against the wall because three weeks is _too damn long_ and — and —

“Why did you do that?” Sansa wants to know, eyes wide and voice hoarse. She doesn’t look upset, just… confused, Jon thinks, which only serves to confuse _him_ in turn. “Kiss me like that for?”

“What do you mean, why?” _Fuck it_ , Jon kisses her again — this one shorter, sweeter, than the starving way he’d taken her mouth mere minutes before. He cradles the sides of her neck, fingers sweeping across her slowly relaxing pulse. “Same reason I did it the last few times. I like you, Sansa. I _like you_. I thought you knew that.”

She blinks, bites her lip, and doesn’t meet his eye when she mumbles, “How would I _know_?”

“Well — all the —” Jon pulls back, just a little, to study her face. Could he have been reading this wrong? he wonders, and struggles with how to ask. “You know, we —”

“Yeah. I did that with Harry, too.” Sansa shrugs her shoulders, where Jon’s hands had begun to knead soothingly upon seeing her suddenly so distressed. _How can I make this better?_ “It didn’t make him like me. Not enough to not go looking for it somewhere else too, anyway. _Several_ somewhere elses,” she adds, a trace of bitterness hovering over the words.

Clarity comes crashing down upon Jon, and he curses himself for an idiot. He’d thought that Sansa _had to know_ how he felt about her, but not for a second had he entertained the notion that he’d have to do anything to _make sure_. He’d been there through the Harry debacle — all the fights down to the final break-up. She’d cried into his shirtfront over it, for fuck’s sake, he’d run his fingers through her hair and murmured comforting words, but now he couldn’t even use his own words to make sure she didn’t doubt this thing between them? Because maybe Jon doesn’t quite know what _this thing_ is, either, but he still knows how he feels about it.

And he really, really should have fucking told her that by now.

“Sansa…” Jon lifts one hand to touch her cheek, to make her look at him again. Her eyes are too bright and he curses himself for that, too. “I’m not Harry. I would _never_ hurt you. Even if there were a thousand alternate realities, there’s not _one_ where I’d do that to you.” He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. _Never._ “I don’t — I don’t know how to prove that to you, but I _promise_ I’m not like that.”

Sansa releases one long, shaky breath, and blinks the brightness from her eyes. “I know you’re not. I do, it’s just… I’m bad at this.” Her laugh is just as shaky as her sigh had been. “ _Really_ , dreadfully bad at this. I feel so on edge all the time, like I’m going to mess this up, and now I have —”

“You _haven’t_ ,” Jon is quick to assure her. He presses his lips to her forehead and releases his own sigh, so relieved it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. “Listen, I’m not great at this, either. But I _want_ to be, for — um, for you.”

He can feel his face redden when she smiles at him, that smile that makes his heart pound and soar and want to jump from his chest right into her hands, because it’s hers and he wants her to _know it_.

“How can I make this easier?” he asks, ready as ever to do anything for her. “So you’re not so nervous?”

“How can I make this easier for _you_ ,” Sansa counters, “so you don’t keep dragging me around to kiss me in low-lit corridors and make a scene again?”

“Well, first, I didn’t make a scene,” Jon attests, although he quite likely _did_. “Second, you’ll just have to never talk to another man again and there, done, my anxiety’s gone.”

“Who’s going to settle my tab, then?” she teases, with her hands on his collar, smoothing out the crinkles she’d made when she’d clutched at it as he’d kissed her. “Flirting is all part of my financial plan.”

Jon shrugs, then cracks a grin as his hands slip around her waist. “Flirt with me and I’ll do whatever you want.”

Sansa purses her lips, trying not to meet his smile this time as she chastises him, “Jaime is an especially generous benefactor to the gallery, you know. Margaery won’t be pleased if you’ve gone and run him off in a jealous fit.”

“Well then Margaery can come out here and flirt with him, can’t she?” Jon grumbles. “I don’t want to share you.”

At that, Sansa lets her smile come through again, but it’s gone as quickly as it had come when that little crease forms between her eyebrows. She nibbles at her bottom lip in that nervous gesture of hers, which only makes Jon want to replace her teeth with his own.

A low, short whine escapes him as he nuzzles into her neck, planting kisses across her skin, eager to get back to what they’d been doing now that he’s finally said what he’s been thinking for weeks, months — _near-on my entire bloody life_.

“But could we… Could we not, you know, tell anyone… um, just for right now, I just don’t want to make it this grand big thing, I want it to be just be, you know…” Now it’s Sansa who trips over what she wants to say, and Jon lifts his head to look at her, to tease her for it. She whacks his chest as it rumbles with laughter. “Stop smirking at me like that, would you? I told you I’m bad at this.”

“You’re not bad at anything,” he assures her. He trails his lips along her cheekbone and takes a moment to mull over what she wants. He’d already decided to give her whatever it was, and truth be told sneaking around with her won’t be so bad — not now that they’ve been honest about their feelings, anyway. At least now Jon won’t drive himself up-the-wall mad with worry over what this thing is or what it means.

“We don’t have to tell anyone anything yet,” he promises, and then proceeds to stumble some more. _We’re a right eloquent pair, aren’t we?_ “We can just… We’ll just be Jon and Sansa for now, yeah? Take the pressure off. Just so long as, you know… We haven’t got to label it, just…”

He sighs at his own ineptitude and swoops in for another kiss to steady himself, no matter how weak-in-the-knees Sansa’s mouth makes him. “So long as we’re _exclusively_ … Jon and Sansa.”

“Yeah.” Sansa nods, eyes bright for a whole different reason now, as her arms encircle his neck to keep him close (as if he’d so much as try to get away from her now, or ever again). “I like that.”

“Oh thank god.” Another relieved sigh leaves Jon in a long-held _whoosh!_ , and he catches Sansa’s answering laugh between his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: the next oneshot in the series will have smut okay EVERYONE CALM DOWN


End file.
